A confluence out of left field
By: Sarah Johnnes
If she is dead, she’ll still be dead if I sleep a few more hours. Besides,
I need a reprieve from what could be. I settle, till first light shows
silhouettes of bare trees. Wind gusted though a few days
earlier and stole the last of the red, orange, and gold foliage. If this were spring, finches, warblers or chickadees might sing the new day
in. Winter stillness alleviates the ruthlessness of death.
Feet stand on fragility at the entrance to her bedroom. I hope all the
verification I need is to see her chest rise and fall. Nothing. I
guess I need to lay hands on her, to see if her skin is warm or
cold. This is a doorway I do not want to enter. With one finger, a light
touch to her hand brings relief. Warm. She is warm. When my cat
settles into comfort and safety, he takes a deep breath,
exhales with a sigh and surrenders to peace. It felt like that. Her eyes opened and even though she can’t see, she says, Oh, hi darling. I love
you, and turns her head towards the wall and back
to sleep. She has no awareness of my side of this equation—not the first time that I could have been alone with a dead parent. At twelve. I
could have found my father’s body had he not postponed
my visit by a day. Makes me think of that game, would you rather. Would you rather wake in an apartment to a dead parent or would you
rather wait in Grand Central Station for eight hours, being
knocked about by cruelty of circumstances. I was a latch key kid. I felt
pretty grown up signing for a UPS delivery. Exciting. A present, a
surprise. I opened the box and found my father’s ashes
with bits of bones in a plastic bag, sealed with a twist tie. Thinking that it should have been heavier, I leave the partially opened package on the
kitchen table and return to Bewitched.
Sarah Johnnes was raised near New York City and currently resides in Eugene, Oregon with a twenty-four toed, seventeen-pound, cross-eyed cat. She has a BA in Art History from the University of Arizona.
As an emerging poet, Sarah applies her photographic eye bringing visual sensibilities to her poetry. She is focused on capturing what is not typically seen, finding connection, beauty, and humor in common
everyday moments — even those that reflect decay, pain or taboo subjects.